


Leaves of Grass

by buff_mollie



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Girl Direction, Lesbians, Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-12 01:36:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10479102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buff_mollie/pseuds/buff_mollie
Summary: “What the hell!” Louis splutters, “I thought I killed you!”“Oh I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you coming and then I threw all of this right in your path and now–“ the girl wipes her hand on her jeans and holds it out to Louis. Uncertain, Louis takes it in her own. She shakes it vigorously. “I’m so sorry,” she says again.Or, the one where Louis is a football playing creative writing major with an eye for detail (when she isn't hitting people with her car), and Harry is a clumsy cello prodigy with a passion for collage and expensive coats.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A work of fiction. 
> 
> I owe a debt of gratitude to 100percentsassy and gloria_andrews for putting the image of Harry playing the cello in my head in Love is a Rebellious Bird.

The air pushing back against her face as she runs, sticking stray hairs to her damp forehead, tickling her jaw. If she could only describe exactly that. Louis’s right foot thwacks the ball, sending a firm pass to her team mate. She grunts, frustrated. Pulling out her mouthguard she jogs backwards to the outer edges of the football pitch, observing the play from a distance. The coach blows her whistle and Louis comes out of herself, making her way back to the rest of the team, wiping a grass stained wrist across her face and shaking her hair out of the black headband holding it back. She slips the the mouth guard into the pocket of her shorts and puts the headband back on as she takes her place by the goal. Focus, Louis thinks, calmly taking note of coach’s post-training run down, if I could only be outside of it for longer than moment I could write that.

She is rummaging for her car keys when Niall slaps her on the back. “Good play Tommo.” Niall is jovial as usual, red in the face and warm with the scent of muddy winter grass, lycra and adrenaline. Louis grins and lightly pats Niall’s ankle, still bent in half searching in her bag. “So I’m thinking back to the flat, quick shower then down the pub for pints and chips for tea?” 

Louis’s hand closes on cool metal and, gripping her keys tightly, she bounces upright. “You know it,” she slings her kit over one arm and wraps the other around Niall’s shoulders. “I don’t know how you’re such a beast in those drills, Nialler,” she says, “seems like you convert beers and chips into pure brute strength.” Niall laughs, a beautiful Irish clatter, and drifts away from Louis as they reach the car, placing a hand on the door-handle, ready to be let in. “Try as you might Tomlinson, I’ll never let you in on my secret.”

Inside the car Louis blows into her hands in a futile attempt to warm them. “Come on baby,” she mumbles, coaxing her rackety old car to life. Glancing down at her phone she starts to ask Niall to put on some music and presses her foot down on the accelerator. Niall scream and Louis slams down the break, eyes flying forward. A figure falls forward in front of the car. “Shit!” Louis flings herself from the car, twisting out of her seatbelt so that she nearly drops to her knees on the wet cement. She rounds the front of the car, heart in her mouth.

Crouched in front of her fender is a dark haired girl swearing under breath at a now very damp pile of what appears to be sheet music. “What the hell!” Louis splutters, “I thought I killed you!” The girl stops swearing and looks up, turning lamp-like green eyes on Louis’s startled, indignant face. Louis feels heat rising in her cheeks. The girl says nothing for what feels like an eternity then she leaps to her feet. “Oh I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” she is flustered, “I didn’t see you coming and then I threw all of this right in your path and now–“ she wipes her hand on her jeans and holds it out to Louis. Uncertain, Louis takes it in her own. The girl shakes it vigorously. “I’m so sorry,” she says again.

“It’s okay,” Louis says, a little dazed. She gets down on her knees and starts piling up the scattered papers. The girl kneels and joins her. Her fingers are tinged pink from the cold. Louis hands her a stack of music and they get to their feet. “I’m just glad you’re not hurt,” she says and makes her way back to the car door. Niall is watching nervously, half out of her window. 

The girl gets out of the way of the car, “I’m so sorry!” she calls to Louis as she shuts her door behind her. She heads off, folder full of music tucked tightly up against her chest. “What the hell,” Louis says again, turning the key in the ignition. Niall laughs and they pull out of the car park.

Back at the flat Louis tosses her kit on the bed and glances at the stacks of books haphazardly spread across her desk. She should really get started on that modern poetics assignment, she thinks as she pulls off her boots, but it’s nothing she can’t handle in the morning. She pulls her towel off its hook and swings open her bedroom door, half listening to Niall recounting the car park incident to their flatmate Liam. Liam is humming in acknowledgement, probably using the coffee table to stretch out her hamstrings after training. Liam is a runner and always stretching out her hamstrings. 

Freshly showered the three of them waltz into their local. Liam is scrunching her long fawny hair up into a ponytail and calculating how many squats before bed will justify a couple of pints and chips. Louis smacks her lightly on the shoulder. “Stop it Li, it’s not healthy to think like that, she tells her, “and you know you run like a thousand miles a day and you’re basically perfect anyway.” Liam rolls her eyes but stops counting and finds them a booth in the back. Niall gets in the first round, unabashedly flirting with the bartender. She flicks a lock of short, peroxide blonde hair behind her ear and smiles so that it takes up her whole face. He gives her a discount and she shimmies back to her friends.

By nine pm Louis is cramming a fifth cold chip into her overflowing mouth. Niall is slumped against her shoulder and Liam is listing all the possible reasons her chemistry lab demonstrator might hate her. “I don’t want to be a biochemist,” she groans and slips down onto the sticky table top, forehead resting between her hands. “I want to be a nutritionist but is that really grounds to hate someone?” She sounds so completely helpless that, even in their near catatonic states, Niall and Louis begin to laugh. 

Louis snorts and blows cold potato out of her mouth, loosely trying to cover her face as she deposits it into the near empty bowl in front of her. Niall doesn’t move or open her eyes. “Babe,” she says calmly, “your demonstrator doesn’t hate you because you want to be a nutritionist. She probably doesn’t even hate you at all but if she does she’s an idiot.” Liam sighs and sits up, eyes widening when she sees what Louis has left in the bowl. 

“Louis!” she is appalled, “that’s disgusting.” Louis grins, holding down a propulsive giggle. Niall begins to convulse next to her. She opens her eyes and twists around to take a look, her laughter increasing exponentially as she looks from clotted potato to Louis and back to Liam. Soon they are clutching each other, Louis drooling from laughter, tears running down her glowing cheeks. Even Liam is laughing now, her brown eyes sparkling. When Niall slips under the table Louis stands up. “Ah,” she gasps, clutching her stomach as she struggles to control herself. “Time for bed I think.” She wipes her sleeve across her face and reaches under the table for Niall. Together she and Liam pulls their spluttering friend to her feet and, clutching each other and still quivering with mirth, they stagger out into the cool night. 

Louis is still bleary eyed as she pulls up outside the coffee shop en route to university. She ruffles through the books and papers scattered across the passenger seat of her car, searching for her wallet, every fibre of her being calling out for caffeine. Glancing down at the mess in her car she thinks about the girl she nearly killed yesterday and laughs to herself. If she is ever short of material for her creative writing class maybe she could make use of the incident. 

Tea in one hand, books wedged under her arm, Louis makes her way to her first class. She is no huge Shakespeare fan, especially not first thing in the morning, but she appreciates the value of learning all that stuff. Louis knows football, and football is all about form and technique and the same goes for poetics. It’s just easier if you have a good foundation to build on. She is also ever aware of her tenuous position in the course. She hasn’t exactly come from a long line of artistic types. Every day in class she is reminded of that. Her classmates have read so widely and they all know how to style their hair and how to match their shoes to their bags. Although she is in principle, fiercely opposed to changing herself to fit in, Louis sometimes wonders what to do with her scruffy, shoulder length hair, or if there is more to life than jeans and oversized sweaters. She dumps her books down onto a seat at the back of the lecture theatre and plops down next to them. Remember, she tells herself firmly, you have exactly as much right to be here as all the rest of them, you’ve made it two whole years just the same as them. 

By noon Louis is fully awake, already cramming her bacon and egg sandwich into her mouth as she walks to meet Liam and Niall for lunch. They are waiting for her, sitting outside despite the brisk winter air. Niall is grinning from ear to ear and Liam is nervously jiggling her legs, boots clapping rhythmically on the paving. Louis nestles in against them and Niall wipes a smear of egg from the corner of her mouth. “Guess what?” she says brightly. 

“What?” Louis asks through a mouthful of food. 

“We just saw the girl you ran over and she was with the love of Liam’s life.” Louis leans across Niall to look at Liam who looks like she might cry. 

“She was the most beautiful girl I have ever seen.” Liam whines, “she was perfect and she was linking arms with that girl you hit with your car and she’s probably in love with her.” 

“I didn’t hit her,” Louis says, taking another bite of her sandwich. “And if she is in love with that girl I’m sure she will walk out in front of traffic one too many times and then your beauty will be available.” 

“Louis!” Liam stops jiggling, “that’s a terrible thing to say!” 

Niall laughs and Louis calmly flicks egg off the tip of her finger. “I just meant that maybe someone so gorgeous will get tired of someone so absent-minded.”

Liam is silent for a moment. “Even is she was single and definitely into girls, she wouldn’t go for me anyway.”

Louis scoffs and Niall pulls Liam into a rough hug. “Don’t be so silly,” she scolds.

\--

Louis is on such a buzz after her poetics class she can barely restrain herself at football. The pitch is wet and she screams with laughter every time she or someone else slips. She trots off the field covered in mud and grass stains. She is about to grab her kit and trudge off to the showers before going home when something, or rather someone, catches her eye. Unbelievably, the girl, of car crash infamy, is standing at the side of the pitch smiling at her. Louis adjusts the strap on her kit and hesitantly heads toward her. Before she reaches her she feels suddenly self-conscious, she is sweaty, rosy cheeked and covered in dirt and the girl is swathed in a black woollen coat with an oversized cape collar, her chocolate brown curls tucked into a steel grey scarf. Louis pushes away her discomfort and smiles. 

“Hi again,” she says and plants herself firmly in front of the girl who is a good deal taller than her, especially in boots. Louis’s eyes involuntarily run up the impressive length of her black denim clad legs, over the swing cut of her coat, and come to rest on a face with fairytale-bright eyes and an obscene mouth. She is holding something and she thrusts it towards Louis. It is a bottle of red wine. 

“I just uh, got you something to say sorry for giving you such a fright yesterday.” 

Louis takes the bottle, “I think you already mentioned you were sorry a few times,” she jokes and the girl blushes and so does Louis and now she catches a whiff of a rich floral scent emanating from her and she feels especially grotty. She holds out a hand anyway, “I’m Louis.” 

The girl takes her hand and grips it, “I’m Harry.” She laughs awkwardly and lets go of Louis’s hand, looking down and shifting her weight. Louis clambers to fill the silence, 

“You didn’t have to get me something, I should have looked where I was going.” 

“I’m a liability,” Harry says, very serious.

“Maybe we should both be sorry, then.” Louis grins and Harry laughs, low and deep in her chest. Louis takes a deep breath. “How about we both drink the wine?” as the words leave her mouth she feels her face turning beet red. “I mean, if you want to?” 

Harry is smiling, revealing rows of straight, white teeth. “I would love to” she says, hands clasped behind her back, smile splitting her face apart. 

“I’ll shower at home,” Louis says, thinking aloud and Harry nods, following her to her car. Niall is at a physics lab and Louis is secretly relieved as Harry folds her long body into Louis’s car.

“I hope I didn’t ruin your evening plans,” Louis says, looking over her shoulder as she carefully backs out of the park. 

Harry shakes her head, “Nope, this is my free day.” She is fidgeting around connecting her phone to the car stereo. At first nothing happens and Louis finds herself glancing repeatedly over at Harry who is looking calmly ahead, arms resting lightly on her crossed legs. Then Louis hears it, the low thrum of strings slowly building. Classical music in a stranger’s car? An interesting choice. 

Harry must sense that Louis is surprised because she turns in her seat and says, “I study cello,” as if by way of explanation. 

Louis nods, “That’s impressive.” 

Harry just shrugs, “it’s what I like to do.” A beat passes before she asks, “what do you like to do?” 

Louis drums her fingers on the steering wheel, this music isn’t too bad. “Football,” she says, “and I study literature. Poetry, mostly.” Harry hums her approval and they sit in comfortable silence. 

As they turn into Louis’s street Louis slows down, “I automatically drove to my flat. I’m sorry I assumed coming here was fine and I didn’t check. Is it okay with you if we drink there?”  
Harry smiles, “I figured you weren’t going to shower at my house. Though you could of course, if you wanted to–“ she stopes, flustered, locking eyes with Louis. Louis says nothing. “Um yes, your flat is fine,” she concludes. 

“Okay,” Louis pulls up outside and kills the ignition. “Here we are then.” Harry, having recovered from her moment in the car, practically hurtles through Louis’s front door. She begins talking almost immediately. “Oh this place isn’t too bad. Who do you live here with? Does it get sun? I mean, I know it’s winter so of course it doesn’t right now, but in the summer?” Louis drifts into the kitchen side of their open plan living area and Harry follows behind her. She takes two mugs from the cupboard and hands them to Harry. 

“Sorry,” she says, “no wine glasses, this is a lager household.” Harry laughs that laugh again and Louis leads her to the couch. “I live here with my friends, Niall and Liam. Niall is on the team with me, and Liam basically runs track and field and thinks about healthy food.” 

Harry cracks open the wine. “A sporting and artistic home!” she declares as she sloshes wine into the mugs. “How delightful!” 

Leaning back on the couch, she begins to unbutton her coat, unravelling her scarf with the other hand. Her hair tumbles free over her shoulders but when she has wriggled free of her layers she scoops it up into a messy bun. Louis’s eyes run along the line of her jaw and the creamy curve of her neck. She is wearing a loose grey jumper, rolled at the sleeves just enough to expose wrists with a smattering of tattoos. There is a watch on her left wrist and her long fingers are adorned with silverware. Harry catches her looking and Louis blushes. “It’s my day off so I like to put all that I possibly can onto my hands,” she takes a sip of wine, “because I only have to play cello when I practice in the morning and again before bed.” 

“Oh,” Louis nods as though this makes perfect sense to her, her eyes locked on Harry’s elegant fingers around her mug and resting in her lap. “I should go shower,” she says, her voice hoarse. 

She throws herself through the shower, chucking on a loose grey t-shirt with a rip in the shoulder and a pair of black Adidas sweat pants. When she returns to the living room, fresh and warm from the shower, Harry lifts her mug to greet her. 

“We should toast!” she says brightly, “to you not killing me and to me not being killed!” Louis smiles and sits down cross legged on the couch, reaching for her mug. Will it be possible, she wonders, for her to pretend she doesn’t think wine is disgusting? Harry seems to like it and she bought it as a gift. 

They touch mugs and Harry toasts “to no car accidents!” and as soon as the wine touches her lips Louis feels her whole face shrivel like a prune. Harry watches her carefully as she struggles to swallow. 

“Enjoying that?” she asks, raising her cup to her mouth again, her green eyes glimmering above the rim. 

Louis nods vigorously, “Mm,” she wipes her lips, trying not to spit to clear her mouth. “It’s delicious.” Harry pulls off her boots and nestles further into the couch, crossing her legs. “You don’t have to drink it, but the more you drink the less you notice the taste.”

“I can do it,” Louis sets her jaw and takes another gulp, maintaining eye contact with Harry. “It’s fine.”

By the time Louis has finished her first cup of wine and Harry is well into her second, Louis has uncrossed her legs and is snuggled into the corner of the couch. She feels warm from the red wine and the scent of Harry’s perfume. She thinks she might still be able to smell it in the couch cushions tomorrow. 

“So you’re a poet then?” Harry is sliding a silver band up and down her thumb, looking at Louis from under thick, dark lashes. 

“Yes, and I’d like to be, you know, properly.” Louis still feels tense when she calls herself a poet. She wraps a hand around the arch of her food and bites her lip. 

“You mean you’d like to do it professionally?” Harry asks, leaving her ring alone for a moment as she drinks from her mug. “I suppose so,” Louis says, thinking for a moment, “And I’d just like to feel, you know, inside me properly like I was a poet.” Harry shifts closer to her. 

“Do you not feel that way?” she asks, brushing a stray hair behind her ear. Louis catches a wave of her perfume. She feels a little tipsy. 

“I guess not. I’m not really–“ she sips her drink, collecting herself. “Do you feel that way about cello?” 

Harry nods immediately. “Yes, I do” she says, voice steady and serious. Louis sniffs and licks her lips. 

“I guess I’m just, I’m a footballer. I love sports, and I’m not from the sort of family who says oh jolly good, you want to be a poet, lots of money in that.” Louis laughs a little but Harry’s face is earnest. 

“I know you know football and being a poet aren’t mutually exclusive. I saw you play. As for your family I really– I hope they support you.” 

Louis is shocked at being so open with someone so quickly, but Harry is disarming, tall and unwieldy, even clumsy, yet alarmingly astute. “My family don’t not support me,” Louis explains, “they just don’t really get it. They think I’m mostly here to play football and to get and education on the side.” Louis drinks more wine and sinks back onto her elbows. “How long were you waiting for training to end?” 

Harry blushes ever so slightly. “I didn’t know when it would be over so I saw most of it. You’re very good.” 

“I wouldn’t have taken you for a football aficionado.”

“I know enough,” Harry shifts again. Her knee is touching Louis’s foot. 

“What about you then, are you a rugby player with a passion for the baroque?” 

Harry snorts, “No, no. I left school early to come to university. It’s always the sooner the better with these sorts of instruments. Now I’m working on my graduate project, helping out with some of the orchestral programs.” 

“How early?” Louis asks, “You weren’t forced to play the cello by dance-mom-esque parents were you?” 

Harry laughs and reaches for the bottle of wine. “Oh god,” Louis starts, “I’m so sorry, that was so offensive. You don’t have to talk about parental pressure, I am so rude.” 

Harry pours more wine into Louis’s mug. “I was sixteen when I left school, four years ago. And no, my mother is very calm and has totally regular ambitions for me. My father I’m not so sure about, but my mum and stepdad, they’re okay.” 

Louis sighs audibly, “Thank goodness. But just so we are clear, I totally resent your clearly abundant drive.” Harry laughs and this time it flies from her chest, loud and barking. At that moment the door opens and Niall and Liam troop into the living room. 

Niall’s face lights up, “Oh my lord! It’s the girl Louis nearly killed! Look Liam, she’s here– Louis, you didn’t mow her down again did you? Is she okay?” Louis rolls her eyes, as much at goggle-eyed Liam as at Niall. 

Harry waves at them, “I’m all in one piece, thanks. I’m Harry.” 

Niall is positively beaming, “Nice to meet you Harry,” she says, grabbing the side of Liam’s sweater so she can’t scarper down the hall. 

“Harry and I are sharing a bottle of wine to make up for yesterday,” Louis explains and Niall’s smile grows ever larger. 

“Right, right.” She says, “We’ll leave you to it then. Nice to meet you Harry!”

Once they disappear down the hall Harry turns to Louis. “What did I do to Liam?” she asks, genuine concern colouring her voice. Louis clears her throat, “Nothing, she just saw you with– um with someone super beautiful and she’s just– I don’t know, intimidated?” 

Harry’s brow furrows, and she thinks for a moment. “Someone su– oh!” her face lights up, “Zayn.” She says, answering her own question. 

“Okay, yeah, Zayn.” Louis looks down at her lap. 

“I hope Liam can like me, Zayn’s face doesn’t actually mean I can't be quite nice.” Louis smiles, “Don’t worry,” she says, “it’s nothing, Liam is definitely going to like you.” 

Louis puts beautiful Zayn out of her mind and they finish the wine, raiding the fridge for beers. By late evening they are both drunk and Louis’s eyes are drooping shut as Harry calls a taxi, blearily asking Louis her address and thoroughly confusing the woman on the other end of the phone. Louis walks her to the door and for a moment before Harry leaves they embrace. Louis’s breath catches in her throat as she is pressed firmly into the richly scented folds of Harry’s coat. Afterward, her bed is a cold comfort. 

\--

Louis’s phone chimes as she finishes towelling off her hair the next morning. She grasps at where it lies on the steamy bathroom counter. It’s Harry. 

“Maybe mixing beer and wine wasn’t such a good plan” she writes, signing off with an octopus emoji. Louis grins and quickly taps out a response. 

“Not feeling too hot this morning myself.” 

Harry replies instantly, “rubbish” she says, with a trashcan. No, Louis tells herself, she just means that she feels rubbish. 

She shivers in her denim jacket as she shoulders open the door of the coffee shop. Her hair is still wet from the shower, pulled back in a pony tail. She is bundled up in a charcoal coloured sweater, a disused beany hanging out of the pocket of her jacket. She sniffs when she steps inside the warm shop and drifts towards the counter. She is staring vacantly at the drinks list when someone places a hand on her shoulder. 

“Harry!” Louis turns to meet Harry’s beaming face. Some of her curls have spilled out of her bun and are hanging loosely against her jaw. She is holding a takeaway coffee and precariously balancing a stack of books in the crook of her arm. 

“Do you come here often?” she asks, struggling to lift her cup to her lips around her armful of books. 

“Most days,” Louis says, turning back to the woman behind the till and ordering a Yorkshire tea with just a splash of milk. Harry waits by the coffee machine with her. “Don’t you have class?” Louis asks and Harry shakes her head. 

“I come in to practise in the mornings before orchestra at ten,” she explains. “I needed more caffeine before I go over some new scores.” 

Louis realises she is staring, her mouth slightly ajar. “I’d like to see you play,” she says hurriedly before she can stop herself. 

“Oh, anytime,” Harry says, smiling warmly.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A work of fiction.
> 
> The Schubert symphony is Symphony No.8 in B Minor and Leaves of Grass is a collection of poems by Walt Whitman.

Harry holds her bow up before her face and gently slackens the tension. She is half listening to Zayn complain as she runs a micro-fibre cloth over the surface of her violin. 

“So I told her that like I know oils are more expensive, and that I use more than the others, but how can I be expected to finish my portfolio if I don’t have as much paint as everyone else? And I obviously can’t contribute; I’m a student, I don’t have any money.”

Harry nods sympathetically and picks up her cello, tucking it into its case. “How are you finding the Schubert?” She asks and Zayn grunts, flicking her dark, silky hair behind her ear. 

“I still need to work on it. I’ll probably have a good go at it tonight so I’m ready for sectionals tomorrow, if you’re home?” Harry hums distractedly in response, pouring over the symphony. “And not out charming footballers,” Zayn continues and Harry looks up from her sheet music. 

“Huh? What’s that?”

Zayn laughs, “Nothing, I’m only passing judgement on you hanging about with a girl who tried to run you down with her car.”

“She didn’t,” Harry says and stands up, “and Zayn, she’s really nice.”

Zayn, herself inscrutable, gives Harry a penetrating look. “And cute?” She asks. Harry’s neck begins to warm and she tugs at her collar. 

“Yes, cute.” She says, keeping her voice as serious as possible while she busies herself putting her instrument away in her locker. 

Later, in her public art seminar on Pierre Bourdieu, Harry slips her mobile from her pocket and unlocks it, holding it in her lap. She opens her conversation with Louis, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. “In a class about Bourdieu, think you’d like it.” She writes. A moment later she deletes it. Biting her lip and gently shaking her head she exits out of the conversation. Someone drops a pen onto their desk and, startled, Harry locks her phone and tucks it back into her pocket. Wait until you have something to say, she tells herself. Don’t come on too strong. 

After class she shoves her books into her bag and takes off, fumbling her Oyster card out of her pocket as she heads towards the bus stop. That her cello is still locked up in the music department practise rooms completely slips her mind in her mad dash to get to the charity stores before closing. As the bus pulls into her stop she remembers her instrument and swears under her breath, wrestling her phone out of her back pocket to call Zayn. Zayn will understand, composition and dissertation research have been clouding Harry’s mind and rummaging around in dusty bins full of old magazines is exactly what she needs. Taking a little time out is exactly the best thing to do this afternoon, she thinks as she smiles brilliantly at the bus driver and makes her way down the bus. 

She slides into a window seat. “Good,” she whispers, “clear your head.”

\--

Harry re-adjusts the collar of her turtle neck and curls her fingers around her coffee cup. She sighs deeply. She is tired. As it happened, Zayn did mind about picking up her cello and made her practice for hours and hours as repayment. Now, the other girl is slumped before her, forehead resting on the countertop, her long dark hair spilling out around her. One shoulder of her dressing gown has slipped down to reveal a mass of pyjamas and a hint of smooth skin. Harry knows better than to talk to her right now. Soon Zayn will have the strength to sit up and actually drink her coffee, but until then Harry will remain silent. She picks up her phone and frowns at it. She puts it back down and takes a sip of coffee. Sighing again she picks up the phone and unlocks it, mindlessly flicking between menu screens. 

“Fuck’s sake, just text her.” 

Harry jumps, really very startled by the sound coming from the usually non-verbal mound otherwise known as her flatmate. “I’m not––“ Harry starts and Zayn groans. Apparently silence is still required. She pushes her phone away from her and thinks very hard about finishing her coffee.

Her day is hectic. By about lunch time she regrets wearing a turtle neck and by the time she gets to the Youth Orchestra rehearsal she is helping out at she is seriously considering just taking it off. For the sake of the children she keeps it on. She wouldn’t have had time to change anyway, she is too busy rushing around adjusting postures in the string section and turning pages for children who have gotten a little lost. On top of her coursework it could very well be too much to volunteer but Harry finds it difficult to stay overwhelmed. There’s always someone tugging at her sleeve to thank her for tuning their violin or for giving them a helpful pointer after rehearsal. 

After rehearsal Harry legs it back to the practice rooms and, laying out her portfolio, gets stuck into composing. There is one particular piece she is struggling with. The page is a total mess, pencil and eraser marks all over the show. Scrawled in a lopsided hand at the top of the page is the title. In a fit of pretension after a summer spent lying in the sun reading in rural Cheshire she’d settled on Leaves of Grass as an appropriate title for the opening piece of her graduate project. Now she feels like the collection is more or less a musical representation of how she completely misinterpreted what the poetry was actually going to be like. 

Yanking off her rings and dropping them in her cello case Harry laments that all she knows for certain about this composition is that it belongs at the start of the collection and that it doesn’t feel right yet. She sits down and rests her forehead against the neck of her cello, her hands gripping it by the shoulders. Please, she whispers, let it come to me today.

Two hours later, having conquered all of two bars, Harry has graphite smeared across one cheekbone, a greasy forehead and a cramp in her thigh. She is ready to go home and wash her face. Maybe, if she’s lucky, Zayn will cook her dinner. Tucking her scarf into the collar of her coat she steps out into the grey, damp early evening. Her boots crunch on wet concrete as she heads home. She doesn’t walk past the football pitch. 

 

Back at the flat Zayn is in no better shape than Harry. She is lying on the couch swaddled in an enormous hoody, her knees poking out of ripped black jeans. A book on renaissance art is open and resting over her face. She doesn’t move or show any other sign of life when Harry steps into the flat. Harry takes off her coat and boots and glances at herself in the mirror by the door before she opens her mouth. She winces at the bags under her eyes. 

“I take it you’re not cooking me dinner then,” she says slowly. Zayn shakes her head and the book slips off her face and onto the floor. 

“It’s been a long, long day.” Zayn mumbles, rubbing at her eyes with both hands. “So long,” she groans and sits up, shuffling down the couch so Harry can sit down. Harry pats her foot comfortingly, suddenly too tired and hungry for words. 

“Should we get a pizza in?” Zayn asks, half-heartedly reaching for her book. Harry nods. “Okay, I’ll get my laptop.” They both sink back into the couch cushions. Harry’s eyes fall on the pile of magazines she bought the day before. She prays for the strength to order food and softly pokes at the pile with her toes. Zayn rolls her eyes at her. “What?” Harry says, aiming for indignant but only managing whiny. “Nothing,” Zayn says and slips off the couch onto the ground. “Computer,” she says weakly, reaching onto the coffee table for her half open laptop. 

—

Louis is doing crunches in the living room when her phone pings. She nearly brains herself on the coffee table in her rush to grab it. It’s from Harry. “Yes,” Louis hisses under her breath. 

“Got in a haul of funky old magazines. Want to come round and cut them up?”

Louis grins at her screen. Harry is still typing. The phone pings again. “We don’t have to drink wine.” 

Louis leans back against the table, her cheeks warming with pleasure. “When do you want me?” she taps back. Harry responds almost instantly. 

“Whenever you want, I live at 12 Platt Lane.” 

Louis leaps to her feet and Liam raises an eyebrow. She is nestled on the couch, her face illuminated by her laptop screen. “I’m off out,” Louis says and Liam lowers her screen.

“Where?” she asks, her tone suspicious. 

“To see Harry,” Louis holds back a toothy grin. 

“She’s forgiven you for nearly killing her, then?” Niall calls from the kitchen and Louis sighs, crossing her arms. 

Liam licks her lips, thinking. “At her flat? Will that girl be there?” She asks and Louis shrugs, trying to be nonchalant. 

“Maybe.” 

Apparently the thought is a bit too much for Liam, she just grunts and returns to her laptop. Louis clears her throat, “she can’t be that good looking.” It’s hard to keep the resentment from her voice but Liam isn’t listening. 

She quickly changes out of her exercise sweats and into jeans and a large sweater. “I’ll be there soon,” she texts Harry, “you live close to me.”

Louis stops at the top of the steps up to Harry’s flat. She is overcome by nerves. Her palm is damp when she reaches for the doorbell. She takes a deep breath and presses it, wiping her hands on her jeans and stuffing them back into the pockets of her fleece lined denim jacket. She hears footsteps thudding towards her on the other side of the door. 

“It’s in the kitchen!” Harry hollers at the same moment as she opens the door. Her whole face lights up when she sees Louis, her smile stretching from ear to ear. She laughs, a great tumble of warm air and floral perfume. 

“Hi!” She says, reaching out to beckon Louis inside. Louis realises she is smiling too, her face nearly split in half. 

“Hi,” she says back. They stop in the hallway, eyes locked. 

“It’s not in the kitchen!” a voice calls from inside the flat and Harry’s gaze breaks away. 

“Yes it is!” she yells back before she turns to Louis, “come on,” she says, directing Louis up a narrow staircase. At the top there is a small landing and one door. On the other side of the door is Harry’s flat. 

It is so warm and bright. Louis steps into a cosy living room and is instantly confronted by an onslaught of colour. Harry’s walls are plastered with thousands of images, parts of magazines and newspapers, an intricate network of carefully clipped colours and words. Louis laughs, “wow,” she says and turns to look at Harry but the other girl has disappeared. To her left is a partially open door and Louis steps through it into a glistening kitchen. It is so cute Louis is almost worried she’ll gag. It is tiled, white, blue, red and yellow, and against the window there is breakfast bar, complete with pot-plants, sugar bowl, and newspaper. Louis scans the tiny room. Harry is crouching behind an open cupboard door muttering something incomprehensible to someone. Louis’s eyes travel upward from Harry and she bites her tongue so hard she nearly cries out. 

Liam was right. Liam was so right. What the fuck, Louis thinks, how could Liam be so right. Before her is the most frighteningly beautiful girl. She is tall; an elegant silhouette even in her baggy clothes. Her skin is radiant, glowing even under the kitchen lights. Her eyes are practically the colour of liquid amber, set above sharp cheekbones and beneath impossible eyebrows. There’s no way her eyelashes can be real but they look so soft? Louis makes a mental note to ask her how she gets her hair to look so sleek. Realising that she’s staring Louis gathers herself. 

“Hey,” she says, smiling at the spectre before her, “I’m Louis. This is a great flat.” She winces at her stilted speech. Inside her pockets her hands are balled into fists and her mouth is dry.

“I’m Zayn,” the vision says, smiling back, “nice to meet you. Harry’s told me a bit about you.” Zayn is cut short as harry emerges from the cupboard, stepping on the other girl’s foot and whirling around to grin at Louis, a large pot of paste in her hand. 

“Welcome!” she says, “would you like a pizza? There’s beer in the lounge––“ Zayn laughs and Harry frowns. “Hang on,” she says, tongue caught between white teeth, she puts the paste down on the bench top. “Would you like a beer? There is also pizza in the lounge if you want some.” 

Louis laughs nervously, “I’ve eaten, thanks. But I’d love a beer.” She swallows her laughter, taking her hands out of her pocket and smoothing back the hair spilling out of her ponytail.

“I’ll get beers, go in the lounge and get comfortable.” Harry orders and Louis and Zayn dutifully exit the kitchen. Louis sits on the couch and Zayn flops into an armchair. She’s looking at Louis, seemingly quite comfortable with the silence. Louis tries not to squirm under her scrutinising gaze. It feels like Harry is in the kitchen for twelve whole years but when she comes back in she places three bottles on the coffee table and the tension melts away. She sits down next to Louis, their thighs nearly touching. She hands Louis a bottle and clinks her own against it. “Right, happy clipping,” she gestures to the coffee table, “grab some scissors and some magazines and cut out whatever catches your eye.”

“Then we’ll put the pieces on the wall,” Louis says, tucking one foot under her thigh and taking a sip of beer.

“You catch on quick,” Zayn drawls and Louis catches her eye, nodding briefly. 

“Zayn, put on some music,” Harry says, reaching across Louis for a magazine. She is wearing a ratty old t-shirt and Louis can’t decide whether to focus on the creamy skin exposed by a hole in the shoulder, or on the collarbone tattoos revealed as Harry leans over. She swallows and picks up a pair of scissors. Focus, she tells herself, there’s nothing here you can’t handle. 

After the first couple of beers things begin to loosen up. Harry and Louis end up on the floor surrounded by mounds of magazine clippings. Zayn has stopped staring and has gone to the kitchen to get more beers. Louis watches Harry out of the corner of her eye as she flips through a magazine. The other girl is biting her lip as she cuts out a National Geographic picture of a woman picking grapes. 

“What does your landlord think about the walls?” Louis asks, settling on a picture of a lion and picking up her scissors. 

“We promised we would get it off when we move out.” Harry says, cutting very carefully around the woman’s fingers. 

“I’m sure that will be so easy,” Louis snorts, and Harry shrugs. 

“It’s nicer than white walls and it’s something to do,” she looks up from her work and their eyes meet for a second before Zayn comes back in, beers in hand. 

“So,” Zayn starts, dragging out the ‘o’ sound, her movements as languid as her speech. “I was thinking we could like, extend out in the middle of the wall to make like one really sick scene just above the couch.” She points just above Louis’s head. 

“Do you have anything particular in mind?” Harry asks and Zayn plops back down into her armchair, taking a swig from her bottle. “I dunno, maybe something biblical?”

They plough on, working their way through a twelve pack as they snip. Harry and Louis do most of the cutting while Zayn hums along to Frank Ocean and makes a plan. Zayn studies art, Harry explains, and she and Harry play in the orchestra together. Louis nods and wonders if there’s anything this girl can’t do. When she leaves for a cigarette break Louis looks up at Harry, chewing her lip. 

“So how did you and Zayn meet then?” She says, aiming for a casual tone. 

Harry doesn’t look up from her cutting. She laughs, low and chesty, for what seems like a very long moment. “Oh,” she sniffs, smiling down at her magazine. “We hooked up in first year, at a hall party.” 

Louis feels her palms beginning to sweat again. “Oh,” she forces a small laugh and puts her scissors down, wiping her palms on her jeans. “Sorry,” she says, “I’ve got to piss.” She stands up and slips out of the living room, down the small hall and into the bright bathroom. She locks the door behind her. “Breathe,” she tells herself, looking in the mirror, pushing her hair back out of her face. Her cheeks are a light pink from the beer. She washes her hands in cold water and presses them agains her warm face. “You don’t know what she actually meant by that,” she whispers. Stealing herself, she unlocks the door and heads back to the living room. 

\--

“I’m done!” Harry throws the last magazine on the floor, scattering clippings. 

“Watch out!” Louis scolds her, reaching for the fragments of paper that have gone flying. 

Harry gets up on her knees and takes a long swig of beer. “We should organise these,” she says, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth. Louis is staring. She blinks. 

“What, by colour or something?” she asks, running her hands across the mess strewn across the floor.

Harry shakes her head, “No, colour is boring. By theme.” She picks up a picture of a hot dog stand and another of some ewe trees. “Like this,” she says, holding them up for Louis to see. 

A loud laugh escapes Louis’s chest. “Theme?” She asks incredulously, “What do you mean theme? Those pictures have nothing in common.” 

Harry scoffs, “Can’t you see it?” 

Louis shakes her head, “ Colour is going to be much easier,” she insists. 

“I can’t believe you can’t see it,” Harry continues, “I thought you were supposed to be a poet.” She begins picking up more pictures. 

“Explain your theme,” Louis demands, getting up on her knees like Harry. 

“Nope, you have to work it out.” Harry tries to keep a straight face but a smile starts to creep in, playing around her eyes. 

“There is no theme!” Louis crows, “you’re just trying to make it look like you see things I can’t!” She plucks the picture of the hot dog stand out of Harry’s hands. “Now what colour would you say this is?” 

Harry lunges for the picture and Louis springs to her feet, holding the hot dog stand above her head. “Organising by colour is so dull!” Harry exclaims.

“But you have no theme!” Louis counters, sidestepping as Harry gets to her feet. Harry’s height overwhelms her and so Louis flings herself onto the couch, pulling her knees up in front of her to protect the hot dog stand. Harry dives after her, reaching into her lap to wrestle the picture off her. “Never!” Louis shrieks, shoving the paper up under her top and writhing away from Harry. 

Harry clutches at her hands, cheeks flushed from laughing. “You’re ruining my theme,” she splutters. Louis giggles uncontrollably as Harry’s fingers brush the insider of her wrist, coming into contact with tender, ticklish skin. “There isn’t one,” she gasps and as she turns toward Harry her eyes rest on soft brown lashes and deep pink lips and she finds herself leaning forward and then her lips are on Harry’s cheek. Everything is very still for a moment. Harry’s skin is downy soft under Louis’s lips. She can smell her shampoo and a hint of beer. She inhales sharply. Harry opens her eyes, flashing green and white. 

Louis pulls away just as Zayn comes back into the room, clutching a print out. The other girl doesn’t bat an eyelid but she comes over to the couch and sits down next to her flatmate. Louis unfolds and rolls away from Harry. Zayn spreads her plan out on Harry’s lap. “So I think maybe the last supper might be a bit involved,” she says and Harry looks away from Louis and down to where Zayn’s fingers are brushing across the plan.

\--

Zayn hands Louis a brush. “Be careful not to get too much paste on the top of the paper or it will be so hard to get off the walls,” she says sternly and Louis promises to be careful. She climbs up on the couch next to Harry.

They paste mostly in silence but for Zayn’s directions. But when Zayn slips out for another cigarette Harry turns to Louis, her green eyes sparkling. Without warning, she smears paste across Louis’s cheek. Louis bellows like a wounded animal and sticks the picture of a corn cop she is holding to Harry’s cheek. Harry’s mouth drops open.   
“How dare you!” She yells and Louis jumps down off the couch, laughing nervously and trying to guess Harry’s next move. Harry crouches down on the couch, wielding her paste brush in one hand, ready to pounce. 

“You’re screwed, Tomlinson, you don’t stand a chance,” she growls and Louis’s heart rate speeds up. 

“I’ll fight you to the death, Styles.” She counters even though her heart literally feels like it is in her mouth. For a second Louis is distracted by Zayn coming back inside and Harry makes her move. Louis swiftly steps out of the way and an unsuspecting Zayn is caught in the action. She swears profusely at Harry through tears of laughter, nursing her paste covered nose.

Some time later Louis is sticky and tired, picking bits of magazine off her hands. She glances at Harry who is beside her on the couch, her knee lightly touching Louis’s thigh. Zayn is asleep in the armchair. “I should go,” Louis says softly and Harry blinks in response. She stands up and heads to the door, picking up her jacket. 

“I’ll walk you out,” Harry says and joins her. They traipse down the stairs. 

“It was so nice to see you,” Harry says and Louis smiles. 

“See you at the coffee shop in the morning?” she asks and Harry nods. 

She opens the front door and Louis steps outside, tucking her hands into her pockets. Harry hums very quietly and steps forward. Her lips brush against Louis’s cheek for just a second. 

“Good night,” she says, voice low against Louis’s ear. Louis’s face floods with liquid heat. 

“Good night,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. Harry smiles. Louis turns and fights the urge to touch her cheek as she walks down the steps.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little short this time, sorry. 
> 
> Thank you for the kind comments!
> 
> Again, purely fiction.

Louis rubs the base of her neck, frowning as Liam plonks two teas down on the table.

 

“You owe me 90p,” she says, dropping down into her seat. She fixes Louis with her puppy dog eyes. “I saw you here with Harry this morning.”

 

Louis sighs, “We just bumped into each other, sort of. Well she texted me to ask me if I’d be here and then I was coming here anyway.”

She picks up her tea, taking a delicate sip. It is still scalding hot.

 

“Did you want to come here in case we saw her again?” Liam continues and Louis laughs.

 

“No, I wanted to meet here because I’m knackered and I needed a cup of tea.”

 

Liam doesn’t look entirely convinced but she lets it drop.

 

They sit in comfortable silence, Liam flicking through her human systems text book and Louis hunching over her tea, willing herself slowly back to life. She’d spent last night with a particularly brutal essay on social criticism in American literature and the nine am submission time had very nearly finished her off. Louis’s slow descent toward the table, however, is interrupted by a low, warm voice somewhere to her left.

 

“Well fancy seeing you here again.”

 

Louis knows Harry is smiling before she lays eyes on her. Louis lifts her eyes and finds Harry grinning down at her, swaddled in her heavy black coat, her hair spilling out from under a dark grey beanie. Louis grins, bleary eyed. Then she sees Zayn, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot next to Harry. Despite her nervous movement she looks mortifyingly cool in a letterman jacket, ripped black jeans and huge black boots. Louis glances over at Liam whose eyes look dangerously close to actually exploding all over Zayn’s pristine white sleeve.

 

“Hey Harry,” Louis says, voice hoarse from lack of sleep and from proximity to the two most attractive people in Manchester. She turns to smile at Zayn and winces, moving to massage her neck. “Hey Zayn,” she says, trying not to sound pained.

 

Zayn gives her a lazy smirk and Louis sits up further in her chair. “Want to join us?” she asks and she could swear she hears Liam whimper.

 

“Sure,” Harry says, stepping around Louis to an empty seat. “We’ve got a minute.”

 

Harry sits and undoes the buttons on her coat. “Hi Liam,” she says, “so nice to see you again. Zayn––“ she touches Zayn’s arm as she slips into the seat next to Liam. “This is Liam, Louis’s flatmate.”

 

Zayn puts her coffee and cigarettes down in front of her, brushing dark hair out of her eyes. She smiles at Liam, flashing pearly white teeth. Louis kicks Liam lightly on the shin to remind her to shut her mouth. “Hi Zayn,” Liam says, voice quivering, “nice to meet you.” Her voice comes out barely above a murmur and Louis kicks her again, this time mouthing LOUDER as clearly as she can.

 

She and Zayn make brief eye contact and Louis shrugs, looking down at her tea.

 

“How was the essay thing?” Harry asks, tapping her ring heavy fingers on the table top.

 

“It was fine,” Louis says, “I’m wrecked now, though.” Louis swirls tea around in her cup. “What are you two up to?”

 

“We’ve got orchestra in a bit, Zayn’s going to show off her solo.” Harry is grinning at Zayn and Louis catches a glimpse of blush in Zayn’s cheeks and notes that there is a small chance the girl is actually human after all.

 

Liam, it seems has not had time to notice any change in Zayn. She begins to choke. “A solo?” She asks between coughs, trying to distract attention away from her choking. “What do you play?”

 

Zayn pats Liam on the back. “Don’t die,” she says softly and Liam turns scarlet, the veins in her neck bulging from heat and stress. “I’m second chair violin,” Zayn explains and Harry claps her hands down on the table.

 

“So it’s a big deal she has a solo,” she says, “first chair here you come!” Zayn smiles and looks down into her lap.

 

What follows should be a comfortable silence but Liam keeps nervously clearing her throat and Louis is watching Harry out of the corner of her eye. Harry adjusts her beanie and pulls her phone out of her jacket pocket, checking the time. “We should probably head to rehearsal,” she says, getting to her feet. Louis panics, momentarily convinced that Harry can’t stand her company a second longer.

 

“Wait!” she croaks, grabbing Harry’s arm. “We’re having a party this weekend, you two should come.”

 

Louis’s eyes flick from Harry to Liam, who is looking at her and quite clearly screaming “What the fuck?” at her over and over with just her furrowed brows. Louis ignores her.

 

Harry is grinning ear to ear and Zayn is nodding. “Oh wow, we’d love to, thank you!” Harry says warmly and squeezes Louis’s arm. “We should run, but I’ll see you soon,” she leans over as she speaks, breath brushing dangerously against Louis’s cheek. With that she slips behind Louis and away.

 

As soon as they are out of ear shot Liam splutters into life. “A party?” she squawks, “A party?”

 

Louis places her forehead on the table top. “I was stressed, it just came out,” she groans and Liam sighs deeply.

 

A beat passes and she speaks again, this time very seriously. “Louis, Zayn is my dream girl and I am too uncultured to even be in her presence.”

 

All Louis can manage is to sit up and look at Liam, mouth slightly ajar. “She plays the violin,” Liam continues, “she’s in an orchestra!” Her voice is pained, eyes rolling so far back into her head it looks as though they may never return. “And she studies art,” Louis adds helpfully and Liam lets out a strangled yelp.

 

She rummages in her backpack, pulling out her phone and her day planner. She spreads the planner out in front of her and furiously enters something into her phone. “What are you doing?” Louis swallows the dregs of her cold tea and grimaces.

 

“I’m going to learn about art,” Liam says without looking up from her phone. “This,” she gestures to her human systems text book, “is not enough.”

 

Soon, Louis moves to the other side of the table and the two of them peer over Liam’s phone, noting down any free or cheap as chips beginner art classes they can find.

 

“Okay,” Liam says, finally. “So I’ve got pottery tomorrow, that talk about old paintings––“

 

“Renaissance art,” Louis corrects and Liam blinks at her.

 

“––Renaissance art on Wednesday, life drawing on Thursday, and then that orchestra thing on Friday.”

 

“And I can help with general literature knowledge,” Louis says, rubbing her eyes and yawning. “Are you sure this is really necessary? Need I remind you you’re quite good as you are.”

 

Liam crams her planner into her bag and nods slowly. “If I’m going to have any chance.” She stands up ad Louis crosses to the other side of the table to grab her coat. Without warning Liam is suddenly standing very close to her. Her eyes are wide. “What if Harry and Zayn are––“ her eyes grow even wider.

 

“Are what?”

 

Louis asks, knowing full well what Liam is trying to ask. It’s more fun to make her say it, even though Louis doesn’t really want to think about it herself. “What if they’re, you know, together?”

 

Louis shrugs and Liam grabs her by the shoulder. “Are they?” she asks frantically. Louis opens the coffee shop door and ushers Liam outside. “I don’t know,” she says as the door shuts behind them. She bites her lip and shoves her hands deep in her pockets. “I think they might have been before?”

 

Liam looks like she might cry but she strides ahead. “Right, well I’ll just really have to hit the books with this art stuff.”

 

Louis shakes her head and follows behind. “Good thing Niall won’t mind a good party,” she says but Liam isn’t listening, she’s busy downloading a Classical Music for Beginners playlist on Spotify.

 

—

 

Louis is sprawled across her desk, arms splayed across pages and pages of notes. Her desk is strewn with books and fragments of essays, half scanned poems and crumpled post-it notes. She runs her hands through her hair and groans, hot breath sticking a sheet of paper to her cheek.

 

“I don’t know,” she mumbles, shoving an essay draft out from underneath her. “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.” The growing urgency in her tone propels her up off the desk. She rubs at her bleary eyes and slouches in her chair. Then, her phone pings. She lunges for it, scattering papers and upturning an empty tea up in her frenzy. It’s from Harry.

 

“Does the party have a theme? Should I wear a costume?”

 

Louis snorts and begins typing a reply.

 

“How about I’m dead tired of this sonnets module and I want to papier mache all of my notes into a full body cast, does that work as a theme for you?”

 

She hits send and pulls her hair back into a ponytail. Harry pings her back.

 

“Not sure about sonnets but could do I’m never going to finish my comp portfolio so I’ve broken both my arms as an excuse.”

 

Louis laughs out loud. “That works,” she writes back, then, after a moment’s thought adds, “hope you haven’t actually broken your arms though.”

 

“Not yet,” Harry sends back immediately, “Zayn is refusing to help me.”

 

Louis bites her lip, trying to keep her smile steady. “What kind of a flatmate doesn’t help with bone breaking?” she writes and locks her phone, cramming it into her pocket as she gets to her feet.

 

She trudges into the kitchen just as Liam comes in the front door. Her brows are knitted together and she huffs loudly, shaking the cold off her as she takes off her coat and comes into the kitchen.

 

“How was pottery?” Louis asks, drifting towards the kettle. Liam sighs and opens the pantry, picking up a box of tea. Louis carries the kettle to the sink and fills it. “It can’t have been that bad,” she says, breaking Liam’s silence.

 

“It was fine,” Liam brings two mugs over to the kettle. “It’s just that it doesn’t really feel arty enough, you know?”

 

Louis raises an eyebrow and Liam looks down at her feet. There’s a smear of clay on the sleeve of her Adidas sweater.

 

“And I think we might be better off drinking out of normal mugs from the shop,”

 

Louis pours boiling water into the mugs. “Yeah?” she says, opening the drawer to find a teaspoon.

 

“Yeah,” Liam grins, “I’m not very good at it. My mug looked more like an ashtray in the end.”

 

Louis laughs and hands Liam a steaming cup of tea. “Maybe Renaissance painting will be more your thing.”

 

Liam scoffs and shakes her head. “Fancy a pint after this?” She asks. Louis slaps her on the shoulder and shuffles in beside the other girl so their shoulders are touching.

 

“You bet.” 

 

—

 

Louis is huffing and wheezing at the side of the pitch, bent over, palms splayed on her thighs when a tall, black clad figure materialises before her.

 

“Hi,” Harry’s voice crackles in the brisk early evening air.

 

Louis pulls herself up, pushes her damp hair out of her eyes and grins. “Hey,” she says, dropping her mouth guard into her kit.

 

Harry twists the tip of one Chelsea booted toe in the mud. “I was just passing on my way home,” her words come out slow, languorous. “Thought I’d stop by and see if you,” she gestures to the field behind Louis, “and Niall, wanted to maybe grab a pint?”

 

Louis wipes her grimy palms on her shorts and sniffs. “I would love to Harry, but the thing is,” she reaches into her kit and pulls out a tatty sweater, “Liam is going to this art talk thing tonight and I promised I’d go with her.”

 

A deep crease forms between Harry’s brows. “Oh,” she shoves her hands deep into her pockets, smiling uncertainly. “The Renaissance painting restoration talk?”

 

Louis nods and yanks the sweater over her head, the hairs on the backs of her arms beginning to bristle in the cold, sweat prickling her bare skin. Harry digs her boot deeper into the dirt.

 

“Zayn was going to go to that,” she mumbles, “but she’s home sick.”

 

Louis doesn’t narrow her eyes and doesn’t let herself wonder if Harry only wanted to hang out because Zayn wasn’t available. That would be completely unreasonable.

 

“Hope she’s not too sick for our party,” Niall appears at Louis’s shoulder, ruddy and grass stained. “She’ll miss out on a total rager if she is.” Niall shoots a wink at Louis and beams at Harry. A slow smile spreads across Harry’s face.

 

“ We won’t miss it,” she says. She lets a beat fall. “Anyway,” she uses her less muddy boot to smear the mud around the other. “I’ll leave you to it.” Her eyes linger on Louis for another moment. Then, she gathers herself. “Bye Niall!” Her voice is a little too loud. Niall waves from where she is crouched by her kit.

 

When Harry is out of earshot Niall slaps Louis on the back of her leg. “Why didn’t you ask her to come to the art thing? Or, better still, why didn’t you ditch the art thing and get a pint with her instead? It’s Liam who needs to learn about art, not you.”

 

Louis shrugs. “Liam would freak,” she says simply and Niall just nods.

“True,” she says and heads off to the showers.

 

—

 

Louis rubs her freezing hands against her warm neck, wincing as she slips into a booth at the pub.

 

“I mean, the stuff about the chemicals was interesting, because like science and stuff, but the rest of it–– how am I supposed to remember all those names? And paint?”

 

Liam is babbling, eyes pained. Louis hums in solidarity and slips her phone out of her pocket. “Did you text Niall?” she asks and Liam frowns.

 

“Are you listening to me?”

 

Louis looks over her shoulder and catches sight of a blonde head bobbing through the door. “Never mind,” she says and turns back to Liam, “and of course I am listening, Li. Now, what do you want to drink?”

 

One pint in on an empty stomach and Louis is toying with her phone.

 

**Art thing wasn’t my cup of tea. Having a pint now but should have gone with you earlier.**

 

Louis gets up to get in another round.

 

**I just went to bed, wild night for me. Wish we could have had a pint.**

 

Louis sits back down in the booth, flush creeping all the way down her neck as she unlocks her phone.

 

**We’ll make up for it this weekend.**

 

She bites her lip. Harry is typing.

 

**We will.**

 

—

 

Later that night Louis rolls into bed bundled up in sweat pants and a long sleeve t-shirt. She pulls the covers up over her head and lights up her phone screen. Nothing from Harry since the pub. She scrolls mindlessly up through their conversation thread and sighs deeply.

 

She locks her phone and shoves it under her pillow, pressing the heels of both hands into her eyes. Bright colours explode behind her eyelids and she lets her mind wander. It settles on a pair of soft, full lips, on creamy skin and traces of dark ink. She sighs again and rolls onto her front, bucking her hips against the sheets. Chocolate brown curls at the nape of a long neck skitter into her imagination.

 

“For fucks sake.” She groans and flips onto her back. “Get a grip.”

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
